


Sitters

by compo67



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Photographer, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Corpses, Death, Graphic Description of Corpses, M/M, post mortem photography
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 03:39:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 19th century, Victorian England, post-mortem photographs are taken of deceased relatives as commemorative pieces. Jared Padalecki is highly recommended as a photographer of the dead. It's not the corpses that disturb him, but the living.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sitters

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: If you're squeamish about corpses, please either don't read this or proceed with caution. This is not everyone's cup of tea. There are graphic descriptions of Jared's business. 
> 
> A ton of details aren't stated here. This practice was not only accepted, it was highly sought after. People didn't have access to cameras like we do now, so a lot of the times, the only pictures you'd have of people were after they died. While the research about these photographs are extensive, very little is said about the actual photographers themselves and how they were seen in society. I figure that they would have been respected but regarded as a little odd. "Sitter" is the term used for the deceased person sitting in the photograph.
> 
> Anyway! I urge caution when reading this and if you decide to research be prepared for unsettling pictures. I'm going to go write some Punzel now to wash this out of my system. I find this subject fascinating but ultimately disturbing. Still, I had to write it. Too good not to. I liked writing in a more Victorian style for a bit. But boy... I could use a hug right now. I briefly thought of making this a verse but I totally can't write more of this subject. It squicks me out too much. ;-; 
> 
> Enjoy? I guess? Comments would be awesome.
> 
> Edits: Went through and fixed a few things that were bugging me. Added a few details. Keep trying to convince myself that 'silent soliloquy' isn't redundant. XD But I love that word so it's staying.

People never made much sense to Jared.

Well, living people.

They were the ones with the problems, the conversations, the demands, and the pressure of time. He often liked to think to himself that one could say death began the moment anyone was born, and in some unfortunate cases even before then.

Sooner or later—no matter what their station—they would all end up like Mr. Gartner here.

Poor fellow. His neck had been snapped in a rather nasty brawl over on Church Street. His family had pocketed his considerable life savings but had deemed his memory significant enough as to purchase a post-mortem photograph of him. “To remember him by,” his widow had wept in Jared’s office, clutching her change purse full of whatever Mr. Gartner had been able to save as the owner of a cheese shop. At first Jared thought he might feel sympathy for her but a brief report from Collins, his assistant, revealed that the first purchase she had made with his money hadn’t been his photograph but instead a new tea set.

“All that cheese,” Jared murmurs, pressing his fingers into the cold, bulging sides of Mr. Gartner’s neck, “and she comes into a new tea set. Hold still, please.”

Just as he finishes that simple instruction, Collins wanders in. He’s a few inches shorter than Jared but most people are so that is no real scientific assessment. Collins came from Russia in search of a British fortune some three years prior. Finding no such fortune he somehow ended up with Jared. A brief but tumultuous physical affair led them to being business partners. It made no sense to Jared, but living young men especially made no sense to him.

Sharp blue eyes are drawn to Mr. Gartner and then to Jared. “Are you speaking to them again? How can you be so lonely?”

“Mm,” he responds, cracking Mr. Gartner’s neck with a sound that snaps through the room. “And how can you be so tiresome?”

“I will overlook that statement. I beg you not to talk to him whilst I am in the room.”

“Then I must insist you leave the room.” He takes a brief moment from his attention to Mr. Gartner in order to look at Collins and toss him a mischievous smirk. “His conversation is far more inspirational and of a philosophical nature. Is this not true, Mr. Gartner?”

Collins’ nose scrunches in disapproval and his tone is vexed. “I see by your mood you are enjoying yourself. She paid well, eh?” Knowing that Jared prefers to be undisturbed while he is with a sitter, Collins stays and continues his inquiries. She paid well, yes. He has not eaten, no. He does not want dinner yet, no thank you. No, he would not like to order pheasant from the establishment around the corner. Yes, it is cold in the lower level of the building. The roof does need to be tended to, yes. Of course he knows it is leaking. No, he is not trying to tempt fate and become a sitter himself by allowing the leak.

“Would you please!” Jared snaps, setting his brushes down and huffing at Collins, who is on the other side of the table in which Mr. Gartner is laying on.

It is Collins’ turn for a smirk. “If I bottled your ill-temper I would live comfortably on a fortune of ten thousand a year.”

“Farewell Collins,” he grumbles, returning to Mr. Gartner’s cosmetic appearance. “Take your leave.”

Sighing, Collins wanders to the doorway, towards the stairs to the office above. The only reason Jared has an office is because Collins suggested it. The sitters are brought downstairs when their families transport them here, which does not frequently happen. Most are done within their homes in familiar surroundings.

Collins is usually around to speak with the living—the family, the grieving—but unfortunately he was out on an errand when Mrs. Gartner arrived early today, Mr. Gartner in tow. It did amuse Jared that she would think it proper to bring him out, the day after his departure, wrapped in a sheet and placed in a wheelbarrow driven by two street boys she no doubt paid for the miserable chore. He spent most of the day tending to smaller details and dressing Mr. Gartner in a clean suit. Bodies are bodies.

“I will find a roofer for tomorrow,” Collins calls out before he climbs the stairs. “Is he living or dead?”

“Living.” Mrs. Gartner requested that he be posed as if he were still alive. Very sentimental. They’ll drink tea in the same room that this picture will be displayed.

“Send for me when you need help.”

“Obviously!” Jared slips on his pair of glasses in order to focus on Mr. Gartner’s face. An array of powders and creams specially mixed and finely tuned are on a silver tray beside the work table. Most of it will need to set overnight, but he has precious time for the session before a familiar smell sets in and seeps into the wallpaper. Alone once more, Jared confides, “There is something quite defective about my assistant, I beg your pardon.”

“I heard that!”

 

The roofer is set to arrive at noon, which vexes Jared but the appointment has been made and cannot be undone. It is a tedious necessity that jeopardizes his work and it is entirely Collins’ fault.

“He will not stay still!” Collins snips, handling the stand and Mr. Gartner entirely wrong. “Make what you can of this for I cannot get his girth to obey my hands.”

“It is a wonder anything can obey _your_ hands,” Jared retorts, setting up the camera.

“I don’t recall you complaining!”

“How would you? You never cease speaking.”

“I… take that back at once, Jared! Take it back!”

“No. Why should I?”

“Because I will put Mr. Gartner down and box your ears myself!”

“I am inclined to think that you would not be successful, Collins.”

A knock on the wall to the parlor startles everyone.

“Excuse me? I was sent for… am I… interrupting something?” The roofer is bewildered by the spectacle before him, which to most living people seems outlandish. To Jared it is work as usual. He snaps at Collins to mind Mr. Gartner’s neck; he doesn’t want to have to reset it again. Wiping his hands with a handkerchief, Jared walks over to the roofer.

“You’re early,” Jared mentions, checking his silver pocket watch.

Young, with a clean shaven face that is rare amongst tradesmen, the roofer meets Jared’s eyes directly when answering. “I always arrive early for my work, sir. It is the preferred manner of my living. Projects are never as simple as my clients think and often require more of my time. Therefore, I… pardon me, but is that gentleman… deceased?” The roofer’s deep voice turns piercing and falters towards the end. Typical response. Jared is accustomed to the living’s reception to sitters.

“Yes.”

“I… uh… pardon me but this is where Misha Collins works, is it not?”

Jared glances at Collins and purses his lips. “Gave them your first name? That is unlike you.” His glances turn towards the roofer, who is, Jared presumes, aesthetically pleasing in his physical appearance. There is something in his manner of stance that is appealing, more so than the average person, and arrestingly uncommon. Jared turns back to Collins, who is struggling with Mr. Gartner. “Set him down!” he snaps and rushes forward, ignoring the roofer for the time being, deciding that his observations are quite enough. “No, this won’t work at all. Why did we say standing would be best? No, move aside. Tell your man what to do with the roof. Be sure that nothing leaks in here or an entire day will be wasted.”

“Should we not scent him?” Collins blurts out, wiggling out from underneath Mr. Gartner’s shoulder, passing him over to Jared, who has pulled a chair over.

Frowning, Jared replies that no, they will not apply any perfume to Mr. Gartner. Any additional chemicals involved in this process might harm the photograph. Attention to Mr. Gartner will need to be finished by the evening so he can be properly laid to rest. There are four solid hours of daylight left; there is a good chance of this photograph developing well. Collins rumbles that he will leave Jared to it, and he fixes his focus on the roofer.

“I beg you to cooperate, it can only help us endure this,” he says to Mr. Gartner, whose head is lolling in a most unfortunate and unnatural pose.

The roofer’s voice can be heard as Collins leads him away. “Is he… alright?”

“Mr. Padalecki is of a peculiar constitution. Now, allow me to show you the leaks. You know I am his assistant…”

 

No children.

Early in his career he did one session with the deceased child of a grieving couple and he could not continue with any other afterwards. Adults and older individuals he could manage—indeed, he was highly recommended and regarded in his profession—but he adamantly refused sessions with those under the age of sixteen. Although many families were no strangers to the deaths of babies and children, making up a majority of those who desired photographs, Jared is well-established and selects his clients, free to turn away business if it does not suit him. It is a privilege afforded by his fortunate situation in life.

His own younger sister had passed away when she was not yet six. Their family had not the means to hire someone like him at the time and so they were left without one physical trace of her existence. Tender and good natured, she was preserved his memories alone now, his parents having succumbed to a fever two years prior. For their session he hired someone else; it seemed proper at the time, though he did insist on being present for their preparation. Every care had been taken to ensure that their bodies were handled with dignity.

Inferior photographers not only create dull poses, but they grossly mistreat the dead.

“Sitting suits you,” Jared comments to Mr. Gartner, who now requires a touch up. With care, Jared attempts to smooth out some of the wrinkles in Mr. Gartner’s best and final suit, a dark charcoal color and of sturdy material. Once smaller details are taken care of, Jared moves behind Mr. Gartner and adjusts the stand, getting on his knees to attend to it properly.

An hour is all it takes for Mr. Gartner to become a suitable sitter. His pose is stately and distinguished, with one hand resting on the arm of the chair and the other, which suffered breaks Jared could not tidy, is hidden, tucked into his pocket. As the photograph is being taken, Jared sits in the background, finishing a bundle of letters and bills at the desk he insisted Collins install in the parlor. Exposure will take three hours at the least, if all goes well, and Mr. Gartner is an exceptional sitter despite his injuries. Pausing in his writing, Jared taps his quill on the edge of the ink well.

“Considering your profession, I marvel at your ability to remain silent in the background,” Jared muses in a low, soft voice. “Do share your opinions, I am sure Mr. Gartner would take great pleasure in hearing them. He has nothing else to do this afternoon.”

Stepping forward from his place in the entryway, the roofer clears his throat.

“The job is done, sir.”

“Hmm.” Jared dips his quill and returns to writing. “Collins is able to pay you.”

“He did.”

“Then you have no reason to be standing where you are.”

A pause. The only sound in Jared’s vicinity is the scratch of his pen to parchment.

“Want of proper resolution,” the roofer remarks, breaking the silence. That combination of words causes Jared’s pen to still.

This is intriguing. “And why should I give way to your sudden inclinations?” It is the fine manner in which the roofer addresses Jared that piques his interest, causes him to hesitate before ending this.

“I thought I had nothing to lose by expressing a wish for closure,” is answered. “You are under no obligation to indulge me in my request. I…”

No. This must end at once. Though the countenance is remarkable and the speech uncommonly alluring, the very idea is objectionable. The living never care for the chaos they cause—they only seek to further it, to spread it like the flame on dry parchment. Sitters are familiar studies. He apprenticed as a mortician first, then discovered the science and rarity of photographs. The roofer’s accent is American, luring and lilting and licentious one might dare to say. It’s more than that but Jared will have none of it. Tossing his letters aside, he meets the roofer eye to eye.

“Are you familiar with the term ‘memento mori’?” he inquires, his tone sharp like the instrument he used to scrape the dried blood off of Mr. Gartner’s face. He does not allow for the roofer to answer. “It means remember your mortality. I assume, given your station, that you remember yours daily.”

Taciturn eyes flicker from Jared to Mr. Gartner and back again.

“You misjudge me,” the roofer announces quietly. “I do not think ill of what you do, however, I am not so arrogant to suppose I understand it. I am an orphan. All I have ever known is my own solitude, and all I have ever had to fear is my own mortality.” He tilts his head, a curious mannerism, and Jared views the swell of his lips, the rough lines of his jaw. “I can see the appeal of your services. Every moment is fleeting, never to be seen again. Even our memories cannot accurately recreate what happens in this instant.”

That stance exquisitely shifts from guarded to introspective.

“I attended a school for music,” the roofer shares. His clothes are covered in soot and dirt and God knows what all from climbing about on the rooftops of London. Yet this layer of dirt cannot entirely hide the flecked portions of skin underneath his eyes or over the Roman bridge of his nose. “I specialize in requiems. Are you familiar with that term?”

Unlike Jared, the roofer allows Jared to answer.

“Mass of the dead.”

A nod is given. “Not much money in music for the dead. Roofing is steady business, not bad for me, I prefer activity to drudgery.” He looks past Jared and towards Mr. Gartner. “Sitting suits him.”

Jared does not respond.

Never has he felt any affection for photographing the living; his first photograph had been of a landscape, for no living subject tempted his time or attention. A persuasion blooms, yet Jared is not wholly convinced it is not evanescent, a phantom transient in his mind. Their eyes meet—dynamic.

“Were I to compose requiems for the waves of individuals out on the street at this very moment, they would all be one movement each. Tragic in their own ways but brief. Simple. Disappointingly base and appallingly ordinary. Yours, however…” Appropriate words are selected; they arrive and the roofer’s eyes enliven. “Would require two movements at the very least, perhaps more if I could find a conductor willing to perform it. Perhaps even a considerable concert piece--restrained but deeply emotive, with contrasting, conflicting sounds to reflect the assessing look in your eyes in this exact minute.”

Their lips converge.

The roofer’s skin is flush. His lips are pink and his tongue is thick.

To think what might have been had some occurrences never come to fruition. That Mr. Gartner could right now be in his shop, with happy thoughts in his head, instead of in the parlor of Jared’s establishment bearing witness to what the law casts as sin.

Mr. Gartner had been locking up when he was accosted by a group of men hungrier and younger than he. The keys to his cheese shop in hand, he died on the filthy street. Jared had cleaned his nails of the grime. They were unnecessarily cruel to him.

“I do not encourage any such attachment,” Jared states plainly, parting yet remaining near.

“Nor I.”

Every being, every creature would end up in some state similar to Mr. Gartner. Even he himself—photographer of the dead—would one day be nothing more than a pile of physical mass and muscle.

This individual, this roofer, would not escape that fate either, despite his fresher intelligence and natural attractive influence.

People never made much sense to Jared.

“Tempus fugit,” the roofer murmurs, uniting their mouths together once more.

 

Captured.

Driven into.

Pried open.

 

Swallowing a sweeping soliloquy.

 _Time flees_.

 


End file.
